


Fight To Survive

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arena Matches, Gladiator!Jon, Kidnapping, M/M, Slave!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:16:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: “We have a new champion,” he cried, pulling Jon to stand straight, presenting him to the crowd. They cheered.





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Jon is aware of when he comes to is the painful pounding in his skull, like a bell tolling, and how he can see nothing but darkness. As he becomes more aware, he notices the rough scratching of twine binding his wrists behind him, and the musty scent of mud and mold. The copper tang in the air of blood; large quantities of it, the scent was thick and heavy. Jon knew he was lying on his side, as if tossed aside by whoever had taken him. The room wasn’t dark as he’d initially thought, there was instead something covering his head to keep him blind for the time being. 

Jon struggled to get out of the rope around his wrists, even knowing it was futile, but he couldn’t simply lie there and just let fate take its course. No, he was too much of a fighter for that. So when he heard approaching footsteps and voices, and heard a door being unlocked, he prepared himself to fight as best he could. 

He was pulled to his knees, and the hood was jerked off, leaving Jon momentarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the light. When he could see again, he took in the two men before him. Bolton men, with the house sigil emblazoned on their armor. He resisted the urge to speak, to inquire as to his whereabouts; it was exactly what they wanted from him, and he wouldn’t play into their games. Even when he was viciously backhanded, he defiantly held his tongue between his teeth, not giving them the satisfaction of crying out. 

“Do you know where you are, bastard?” He spit at the man, glaring up at him with fire in his dark eyes. All that served to do was earn him a foot driven into his stomach. He groaned as he was sent onto his back, his head hitting the ground with a sickening  _ crack _ . The and watched him gasp and groan with a satisfied smirk, taking a step towards him. He was stopped by his friend before he could attack Jon again. 

“Easy, Rider, I’ve got my bets set on this one. Can’t have ‘im too battered just yet. Have at him afterwards.” 

“Ya waster yer money. This pup’ll be eaten alive.”

“We’ll ‘ave ta see, won’t we? Now come up, get off your ass, pup, you’ve got somewhere to be.” 

“Piss off,” Jon groaned, rolling onto his stomach so that he could get back into his knees. He was again kicked to the ground, landing face first without his arms to catch him. His vision swam with tears as the sudden shock of pain blooming across the left side of his face, and he thought for a moment that he cheekbone might actually be broken. He was not given a chance to get back up, Rider grabbing a fistful of his hair to drag him along. Like an errant dog. He struggled as much as he was able as he was lead out of the room, bent almost double, but there was nothing he could do to get away without causing significant pain to himself. 

“You’d best save your strength, pup. You’re gonna need it,” Rider’s friend said, laughing. When Jon still struggled, he drew his sword and prodded him in the back hard enough to cut through his clothes and dig into his flesh. “Behave or I’ll end your life here and now.” 

Jon didn’t doubt him, so he stopped struggling. It wouldn’t do to get himself killed for nothing, not while there still might be a chance of escape. 

Any hope of escaping he might have had fled him when he heard the sound of swords clashing and the roaring cheers of a crowd overhead. He could guess the reason he was brought here. When he stopped in his tracks to stare at the doors ahead of them in trepidation, the sword was again at his back to encourage him forward. He didn’t have to see Rider’s face to know the man was grinning, eager. 

When they reached the door, nothing happened. The crowed cheered, louder than before, and then there was an ominous silence that stretched on and on. Finally, the door opened, and a body that cut nearly in two was dragged through, smears of blood left in his wake. A sword was shoved into Jon’s still bound hands and he was pushed out into the arena, doors slamming behind him before he had a chance to retreat. Across from him, he could see another man wielding a sword, unbound and furious. It was a tricky maneuver to turn the sword so that Jon could cut his hands free, without injuring himself, but he managed it just in time to block the man’s strike with his sword. 

Jon had no idea who this man was, how long he had been here, forced to fight for the Bolton men’s amusement, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he was suddenly thrust into fighting for his life against a man almost double his size. He fought on the defensive, at first, still trying to gain his bearings. He felt sluggish, and almost lost a limb or two to the hulking man thrice already. If not for almost a decade of training to rely on, he surely wouldn’t have lasted as long. 

The crowd watched, enraptured, clearly surprised that Jon had lasted this long. Most had surely bet on him to die within seconds of entering the arena. 

The man was tiring, getting slower and clumsier with every swing of his sword. He came charging again at Jon, sword raised and muscles bulging, looking as if he would cleave Jon clean in two. Jon decided to take a risk; he knew he couldn’t match the man for strength. Instead, he had to be faster, smarter. The intelligence of his plan was arguable, but he was hoping it would be unexpected enough to work. 

He took off running, almost slipping in the sticky mud, and when the man was no more than two yards away, he dropped to his knees to slide right under the sword as it was brought down. Turning, he threw all his weight behind his sword and strove it through the man’s back as he stood.

The crowd was silent. The only sound that could be heard past the pounding in his ears was his harsh pants as he tried to catch his breath. He looked around, still holding himself up with the sword buried in his opponent's back, and took in the mix of awe and outrage. A door opened off to the side, and three men came out. Two of them took his sword from him and dragged away the corpse, while the other regarded the crowd with a giddy grin. 

“We have a new champion,” he cried, pulling Jon to stand straight, presenting him to the crowd. They cheered. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, this took a turn from the original idea. There's going to have to be a third chapter!  
> Edit: this is going to be 4 chapters AND a sequel ;)

Jon soon learned how to play the game he found himself unwilling a part of. Those who won the fights got to live. The fights would not end until there was one single man left standing; this man, whoever he may be, would be permitted to leave. The Bolton’s would not touch him once he’d earned his freedom. Of course, it was nearly impossible when they kept taking new prisoners-- _ slaves _ \--for the fights. Still, everyone held out hope that they would one day make it. Others were just waiting to be matched against someone who could beat them; they wanted it to be over, but they weren’t willing to do it themselves or give up without a fight. 

Jon found that by the fifth week, he didn’t care who he was pitted against, whose blood was on his hands. How fast he had become numb to it all, be it a seasoned warrior or a young boy holding a sword in his hands for the first time. The most he could offer them was the mercy of a quick death, small mercy though it was. The only times he found his cold facade breaking was when he found the one on the end of his sword thanking him for ending it, for being their executioner, and that only served to anger him. He wasn’t and executioner, wasn’t some dog to entertain these people. And yet, that’s all he was anymore. Entertainment. A rabid animal killing all who were put before him. 

He wore the title of champion well. By the ninth week, he found a sick satisfaction in it.

Thirteen months later, Jon found himself staring up at the wall, his hand buried in the pile of soft fur at his side, idly petting the animal it belonged to. A great direwolf, as white as the snow with eyes the color of blood, lay sleeping at his side where he sat on the floor, waiting to be gotten for his next match. The wolf was one of his opponents, once. Two, perhaps three months ago, or even more for all he knew, they began to pit him against whatever beasts they could catch. Packs of vicious dogs, shadow cats. A bear, once. He felt more guilt at killing the animals than he had killing men and boys. Then, they had caught a direwolf. And what a great match that would be, having Jon finally killed by a beast from his homeland. 

Only, the direwolf hadn’t killed him. It had lunged for him, jaws open wide, and Jon had known then that his time was over. He would finally find his freedom from this hell, even if it wasn’t of the sort he had dreamed of in the beginning. But where he’d expected jagged teeth around his throat, he found a wet nose sniffing at him instead. The wolf had stood over him, covering Jon’s body with his own and growling at anyone who’d approached when it became clear that this fight would not end in a death. The wolf had torn through eleven men before they realized that he would not leave Jon’s side. He had grudgingly been permitted to keep the beast, as well as have the wolf fight with him against multiple opponents. They became a deadly team.

Ghost, named for his once pristine white fur, was Jon’s only friend in this hell. The direwolf had saved his life numerous times, and the gathering crowds loved them together. The fights were much more interesting, and each time there were more opponents, ever-growing teams of man and beast. It was the best entertainment these people had seen, better than just one man against one man, and they were voracious for more. 

Some fights, Jon wouldn’t be permitted a sword. Left with just a knife, or in some cases nothing but his bare hands and teeth. He would have the tang of blood in his mouth for days, come away from the arena drenched in it, just like Ghost. By now, the wolf’s fur was filthy and matted, very little of the white showing through the dried blood and grime. He seemed content, though, sleeping with his head on Jon’s lap. Always within arms reach, when he wasn’t pressed up against Jon in some way. Jon’s only constant in his new world. He didn’t know what he would do if one day his wolf was taken from him.

Ghost picked his head up, a deep growling rumbling out of his chest as he stared at the door. He rose, coming to stand in front of Jon like a shield. He was not calmed when Jon reached out to put a hand on his back, petting him. If anything, he became more ferocious, hackles up and ears pinned back, teeth bared; he would not allow any harm to come to his master if he could prevent it.

When he was not met with the usual men, but instead someone with bright eyes and a cruel smile, Jon knew something was wrong. He could not hear the telltale signs of a crowd or fight through the open door, so he knew it was not time for a match. Apprehensive, he rose into a crouch, looking every bit like the animal he had become over these many past months, his teeth bared like Ghost’s. 

“Down, boy,” the man said patronizingly, gesturing as if he was placating a dog. “Behave and I’ll give you a treat.” 

“What do you want,” Jon asked, his voice a growl, hoarse from lack of use. If anything, that just made the man before him brighten, as if delighted by what he was about to say. 

“I was hoping you would ask that! You see, lord Bolton, my father, has requested his favorite dog be brought to his quarters.” Dread filled Jon at his words, and he backed away, into the furthest corner of the room. The man, Ramsay, tsked at him, waggling his finger chidingly. “No, no, we can’t have that, pet. Now be a good boy and come along, or do I need to put a leash on you?” 

Jon, never one to make things easy on anyone, stayed exactly where he was. Ramsay sighed as if put upon, and approached Jon. Jon saw right through him, he could see the delight in Ramsay’s eyes. But struggle as he might, he couldn’t stop Ramsay from buckling a collar around his neck when two men came in to hold him down, the sharp spikes lining the inside of the collar sinking into his flesh and making every breath he drew agonizing. Ghost would have likely torn them apart, had Jon not told him off. Even still, the direwolf stood shaking with rage and the force of his growls, itching to sink his teeth into the lot of them. Jon knew better; if Ghost attacked, lord Bolton would have the wolf killed, no matter how many men it took. 

“Such a good boy,” Ramsay cooed, even going so far as to ruffle his filthy, matted hair, before jerking on the leash. Jon had no choice but to follow, or have the sharp spikes dig into his flesh in deeper. 

By the time they arrived at the lord’s chambers, Jon’s neck was dripping blood down his bare torso in rivulets of red. Roose Bolton looked less than impressed as he regarded Ramsay, and even more so when his attention turned to Jon. 

“Do you know who I am, boy?” he asked. It took everything Jon had to be civil with the man that had taken his life away from him, and forced him to do the same to so many others.

“An asshole?” Well, mostly civil. He kept his voice above a growl, at least. Ramsay yanked on his leash, and Jon hissed in pain, pulling at the collar as it dug into his neck even more, sending a fresh wave of blood pouring from the puncture wounds. 

“My apologies.  _ Lord  _ asshole,” he spat. This time when Ramsay went to pull on the leash, Jon wrapped it around his hand and jerked back, unbalancing him enough to pull him backwards into a mockery of a lover’s embrace, his back pressed against Jon’s chest. Ramsay went still when he felt Jon’s breath over his neck, and realized just the precarious position he was in with Jon’s teeth so close to his throat. He looked to his father with wide, pleading eyes. Roose watched them with boredom in his eyes.

“Kill him, if you feel you must. I’m sure he deserves it,” he said dispassionately. 

“ _ Father- _ ”

“Silence. You got yourself into this, you can suffer the consequences.”

The room was tense as they waited to see what Jon would do, his teeth poised a Ramsay’s jugular. But he did not bite the man, instead growling against his ear, “Take the collar off.” Swallowing thickly, Ramsay pulled the key out of his pocket and reached back behind Jon to fumble with the lock, until it slid inside. The lock fell to the ground when he turned the key, along with the heavy collar, sharp spikes pulling out of Jon’s flesh with a  _ squelch _ . Jon breathed a sigh of relief, some of the tension leaving his taught body. 

Ramsay, mistakenly, thought that meant he could relax as well. But when he went lax in Jon’s iron grip, he found the warrior jerking aside the collar of his shirt to sink his teeth into Ramsay’s shoulder. The man screamed in pain, but Jon didn’t let up until a rush of hot blood filled his mouth. Satisfied, he shoved Ramsay away from him, sending him falling at his father’s feet.  

“Pathetic,” Roose said, kicking Ramsay away from him. 

“What. Do. You. Want.” Jon said again, blood that hadn’t trickled down his throat pouring out of his mouth, staining his skin and teeth brilliant red. He was no stranger to ingesting blood, or even human flesh; he was what called pork likely wasn’t. That made Roose smile; Jon was such a good pet now. Ruthless, remorseless. He gestured to a tub full of steaming water in the corner that he’d had prepared just for Jon.

“Clean yourself first. Then we’ll talk.” 

Even more suspicious than before, Jon hesitated, before slowly making his way to the tub. He would be lying if he said he didn’t want to take Roose up on the offer, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a hot bath. But he was also smart enough to know there was some kind of catch to his master suddenly being so kind. Still, when Roose gestured for him to get on with it, he stripped out of his leather armor, leaving it in a pile at his feet, and stepped into the water. He couldn’t stifle the appreciative groan as he sank into it, basking in the warmth as it seeped into his bones. 

He was pulled from his brief moment of peace when someone touched his shoulder. Jon caught the offender by the wrist, lips pulled back in a snarl. He was met with the frightened, wide eyes of a young girl. 

“I-I-I’m sorry, I n-need to…” She gestured at the sponge in her hand, the one Jon was gripping tight enough to hurt. Apologetic, he released her wrist, letting her go about her task. He was uncomfortable with her touch, but he didn’t miss the worried, scared looks she kept sending towards lord Bolton. Jon knew she would likely be punished if he sent her away, and he didn’t want to be the cause of her pain. 

When she got to his hair, she seemed to not know what to do with it, so filthy and tangled was it. He dismissed her with a simple, “I’ll do it.” She looked to Roose and when he nodded with approval, she scampered off, handing Jon a comb before she left. It was a tedious and painful process, brushing out all the tangles. And his hair had never stood up to much brushing even before, having broken more than a few combs in his life. But he finally managed to get most of the snags out. Now, hair clean and skin scrubbed raw, Roose deemed him presentable. 

He stepped out of the bath, the cold air of the room stinging his hot flesh, uncaring about exposing himself to the other man. Modesty was not something that troubled him anymore, after the amount of times he’d been sent into a match naked and weaponless. When he went to reach for his clothes--scraps of leather, really--Roose stopped him. He snapped his fingers, and a slave came forward to present him with a towel and proper clothes. As he accepted them, Jon was sure that now was the time of his death. They were simply preparing his body for the funeral pyre. 

“Go on, dress. We have much to talk about.” Jon did as he was told, not knowing what else there was to do. If he was going to die now, he at least wanted to die clothed, with some small amount of dignity. While he dressed, Roose went to sit at a table, and soon slaves were bringing in delicious smelling food that made Jon’s stomach cramp and mouth water. “Go on, help yourself,” Roose said gesturing to the food before him. While it was nothing extravagant, it was like a feast to Jon who had been fed nothing but scraps for well over a year. He sat across from the other man and eagerly tore into the food, manners be damned. Roose watched with amusement, drinking from his mug of ale.

“I have a surprise for you, Jon. It’s why I brought you here tonight.” Jon froze, looking up at Roose with wide eyes. The man set his ale aside, before crossing his arms over his chest with a smile. “No need to be frightened, you’ll like it.”

“What is it?” he asked around a mouthful of the best meat he’d ever tasted. He looked as if he was ready to bolt at any second. It made Roose’s smile curl into a sharp, predatory grin.

“With the frequency of your matches, and without how many opponents you’ve slain after we begun using teams, we are down to one last man for you to fight. Tomorrow is your last match, Jon. If you survive, you will go free.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“I can understand your suspicions, but no. I am entirely serious, Jon. If you do well tomorrow, you are free to go home. As well as claim anything you wish as your prize.” He had earned Roose quite a bit of gold over the many months he’d been fighting, after all. It wouldn’t be fair to send him away with nothing. 

Still, Jon wasn’t willing to believe that it was that easy. The more he talked to Roose, the more he felt sick with dread. “Who will I be fighting?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. That will ruin the surprise.”

When Jon was lead back to his cell—this time without the leash and collar, but he felt no less constricted for it—he knew he would be getting no sleep. Ghost didn’t recognize him, at first; he supposed he no longer had the thick, cloying scent of blood on him anymore. 

He was plagued with thoughts of tomorrow’s fight, so much so that he didn’t realize the door to his cell opening. Ghost hadn’t picked himself up or so much as growled, meaning there was no immediate danger. And indeed, it wasn’t a warrior or soldier come to kill him that was pushed into the room, but the frightened young girl from earlier. She looked to be even more scared now, her whole body trembling like a timid little bunny. She stared at him with her wide doe eyes, a pretty green-blue that complemented her fine dusting of freckles and red hair--she reminded him so much of someone he had once loved, who he knew he would never see again-- as if she thought he would attack her. He realized why she was so afraid when, with shaking hands, she untied the straps of her dress behind her neck to let it fall and pool to at her feet. 

Tears were gathering in her eyes, and she was wracked with the force of the sobs she tried desperately to hold back when Jon rose to his feet, coming to stand before her. He didn’t say anything, nor did his eyes leave her face; he had no interest in her slight body. She couldn’t know that, though, and when he kneeled down infront of her, she couldn’t hold back her tears anymore. 

“P-please…” 

Jon picked up the straps of her flimsy dress, and pulled it back up to cover her when he stood once more, tying them carefully behind her neck. “Don’t,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle as someone like him could, brushing her tears away with his rough hands. 

“I’m not going to touch you,” he promised. “I won’t hurt you like that.” 

The words he had thought to be comforting only served to make her cry more, and not knowing what else to do, he wrapped his arms around her. After a few moments, she held onto him desperately, crying into his chest while he softly hushed her. He couldn’t say that it was alright, that she was safe; they both knew it to be a lie. 

“You c-c-can’t s-send me a-way,” she said through her tears, looking up at him with splotchy cheeks and shining eyes. “Lord Bolton--he will--p-please…” 

“I won’t send you away, little one,” he said, petting her hair. She held onto him tighter, thanking him through her tears. 

He lead her over to sit down with him next to Ghost, holding her until her heart-wrenching sobs turned to quiet sniffles. Jon smiled softly at her, brushing away her tears again. “What’s your name?” 

“Deirdre.”

“You’re a lovely girl, Deirdre. You remind me of my little sister.”

“R-really?” 

“Yes. So I’m going to try my best to keep you safe, alright?” 

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, like she didn’t believe him. He was quite sure he believed himself, but he would do his damndest to keep the girl safe if he could. 

“Try to get some sleep, Deirdre,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before pulling away. He went to lay down, Ghost beside him with his fluffy head on his chest. Deirdre soon followed as well, coming to curl up at his other side and using his arm as a pillow. She seemed unsure of Ghost, but the wolf just leaned over to sniff her, before laying his head back down and returning to sleep, Deirdre following close behind.

All night, Jon stared up at the ceiling, idly running his hand through Deirdre’s long hair, his stomach rolling and body tense. He knew that it wouldn’t be so simple as just killing one man and leaving. He knew there had to be something Roose wasn’t telling him.

Perhaps it was a test. Not of his skill, he had proven that time and again. Maybe his opponent was just a mere child, to see if Jon really was as ruthless as Roose had trained him to be. There was no remorse in his heart when he followed that thought with one of how he would have no qualms. He told himself he would rather kill a child, give them the mercy of a quick death, rather than sentence them to his fate. But no, Roose had said it was a  _ man _ . Not a boy. Still, Jon couldn’t stop thinking of the man’s unnerving, cruel smile when he’d made his announcement. 

Morning couldn’t come soon enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deirdre means "sorrowful" or "sad one" for anyone whose curious to know the meaning. I also think it's a very pretty name.


	3. Chapter 3

_“You’ve been gone for a long time,” Robb said, coming into Jon’s cell and leaning against the wall. He was smiling, so bright and beautiful that it made Jon’s eyes water, overcome with emotion. “You look good, though. I like the leather skirt.” Jon couldn’t think to correct him that it wasn’t a skirt._

_“What are you doing here?” he asked, standing. He didn’t approach Robb, and neither did the man across the room approach him yet._

_“I’ve missed you.”_

_“But how did you get here?”_

_“Does it really matter?”  Yes. Yes, it mattered a lot, because for all he knew this could be a trap. Another one of Lord Bolton’s games, and if it was, he didn’t want any part of it. Robb would never hurt you like that, a part of his mind reminded him._

_“No. I suppose it doesn’t.”_

_Robb uncrossed his arms and held them open, and Jon went to him. Across the—empty of Ghost and Deirdre, he realized, but didn’t dwell on it—room in only a few strides to find himself wrapped in Robb’s arms, held against him tightly._

_“I’ve missed you, too,” Jon mumbled, his voice muffled against Robb’s neck. He felt a hand gently stroking his hair, and Robb held him tighter, as if to prove to him that he really was here, as impossible as it was.  “It’s been so long…”_

_“That it has. 15 months, one week, and six days. Not that I’ve been counting.” Despite himself, Jon found himself laughing. Gods’, he loved this man. He didn’t think there was anyone else that could make him laugh, not now._

_“It’s been so hard without you. The thought of seeing you again is the only thing that’s kept me fighting.”_

_“My stubborn Jon,” Robb sighed; Jon could hear the fond smile in his voice. “You would never just lay down your sword and give up.”_

_“I don’t always have a sword to lay down,” he said. Robb snorted softly. “But I’ve wanted to, so many times. It would be so easy to lose one of my fights; I don’t even know how I’ve managed to with all of them—do you know how many people I’ve killed here? One-hundred and ninety-nine. Few of them have been men, soldiers.”_

_“You didn’t have a choice.”_

_“Yes I did.” He pulled away, looking up at Robb, waiting to see the disgust in his eyes. A part of him wanted to see it, wanted Robb to push him away, call him a monster. He was no better than a wildling, now, after all he’d done. “Every time I was pushed into that arena, I had a choice. Every time.”_

_“Yes, you’ve made impossible choices. Choices that you were forced into making.” Jon shook his head, pulling away from Robb entirely, until he was out of his reach._

_“A better man would have chosen differently.”_

_“Everyone you’ve fought has fought back. I may not have seen, but I know you wouldn’t kill someone who refused to fight you, you aren’t like that. They all made the exact same choice you did, you were just the better fighter.”_

_“No, you don’t—where’s Deirdre? My wolf—where’s Ghost?”_

_“Jon—“_

_“Where are they?” When Rob reached out to him, Jon hit his hands away. He turned in a circle, searching the tiny room, even though he knew it was empty save for him and Robb. They had been there only a little while ago, they couldn’t have gone anywhere, not unless they were taken from him._

_His pulse was picking up, the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding against his ribcage, as if trying to break out. He could feel the claustrophobia setting in, getting worse as Robb approached him, cornering him against the wall. He was saying something, but Jon couldn’t make out his words. “Where are they, where are they,” he heard himself saying, his back hitting the wall and his hands tangling in his hair as he slid down it. Distantly, he thought he could hear Deirdre crying, calling for him. Perhaps he could hear Ghost howling, as well._

_“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly, looking up at Robb. It was as if his panic had left him just as fast as it had come, and he found himself looking up at his brother, suspicion clouding in his eyes._

_“What do you mean why am I here? I told you I missed you.”_

_Jon had been so overcome with emotion at seeing Robb that the first time, he had been willing to accept that. To look past the strangeness, the wrongness, of the situation. But now, suddenly struck with clarity, he couldn’t look past it anymore. Nothing about this was right._

_“No. No, no, you couldn’t have just walked in here, Lord Bolton would have never allowed it. And I would have heard if you’d fought your way in here. I’ll ask again; why are you here?” Stop this, you fool, Robb would never hurt you, he told himself. He wouldn’t let Roose use him to hurt you, he wouldn’t work with Roose. He wouldn’t hurt you._

_But what if he would?_

_Jaw clenched, Robb sighed. He pulled away from his brother, leaving Jon still curled up cowering in the corner. “That’s just too bad, honestly.” Remorseless, Robb turned his back on Jon and walked back across the room, to the cell door. He knocked on it, and a guard—Rider—came to unlock it, letting Robb out. Jon stood as Rider locked the door once more, running to it, his mind screaming no! as he gripped the bars. Robb turned to look at him, the torch down the hall reflecting on his features, the play of shadows and light making him look grotesque, cruel._

_“I really did miss you, Jon.” He grabbed Jon’s hand, pried it away from the bar it was wrapped around, and pulled his arm through the bars so that he could kiss Jon’s bloodied knuckles. “Farewell, Snow,” he said. When he turned away this time, he didn’t look back, leaving Jon to scream for him in the cell as he was escorted away by Rider._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it was a dream. No, robb didn't betray Jon. And yes, there was a reason he had this particular dream ;)


	4. Chapter 4

The morning of his final fight found Jon waking in a daze, his vision swimming and making him feel as if the world was turned upside down. He tried to stand, and fell against the wall, the cold stone being the only thing keeping him on his feet as his legs failed him. Within minutes, he could hear the sounds of keys and a lock turning, someone calling his name. It sounded as if they were speaking through water, distant and hard to make out. 

“What did you do to me?” he asked, voice slurred. He was covered in a sheen of cold sweat, despite not having done anything taxing enough to cause this. 

“Come on, pup, it’s your big day,” Rider said, whistling patronizingly at him as if he were a dog. Jon bared his teeth, stumbling towards where he could see the outline of the guard, and lunged at him. He crashed into the wall beside him, even his vision betraying him. A headache pounded in his skull in response to Rider’s raucous laughter. 

“Where’s--where’s the girl? What did you do with her? And my… wolf. Ghost. Where are they?” Just as in his dream, there was no sign of them in his cell. He couldn’t hear anyone else aside for himself and Rider, and knew that even if he could barely see silhouettes, he could hear well enough. They were alone. 

“You didn’t think the girl was yours to keep, did you?” Rider said, sounding positively delighted. He tsked at Jon, watching him struggle to stay on his feet. “No, no, no, pup. She’s lord Bolton’s favorite slave. As for your dog… well. He fought so desperately, but even a direwolf is no match for Bolton hounds.” 

Jon felt tears prick at his hazy eyes. He had loved Ghost more than his own life, he surely wouldn’t have lived as long as he had if not for the wolf. 

“You’ve nothing left to live for. So why don’t you go out there and make me rich, pup; I’ve wagered for you to die today.” He finally grabbed Jon by his arm, dragging him out of the cell. Jon was helpless to resist, finding himself teetering between Rider and the wall in an attempt to keep upright. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he promised. “I’m going to peel your skin from your body like that sigil your proudly wear on your chest. I’ll pour salt water and vinegar over you until your throat is bloodied and you can’t scream any longer, and then I will give you to the dogs to tear apart.” He looked over at Rider, and this close, he was able to make out his expression; features ashen and eyes full of fear. Jon smiled a wolf’s smile, all gleaming teeth. 

Rider pushed him to the ground and kicked his back. “Crawl like the dog you are,” he spat, kicking Jon down every time he tried to stand back up. He made Jon crawl on his hands and knees down the remainder of the hall, before dragging him back to his feet by his hair. 

“You’re going to die today, bastard. And everyone will cheer as they watch,” he spat. “There is no one to mourn you. Not your bloody dog, not that whore slave girl, and not your precious family who never wanted you in the first place. You will die, and as your corpse rots in the ground, you will be forgotten.” He pushed a sword into Jon’s hand, one he could barely keep hold of, and shoved him into the arena. But not before Jon spat in his face and grinned at him. 

“You’re wrong about me,” he said as the iron gate came down. “I do have something left to life for.”

“And what might that be?” 

“Spiting you.” He gave a flourished, sarcastic bow, almost toppling over, and went to face his opponent. All he could see was the shadowed silhouette of their body, and a shock of red hair. He froze in his place, even as the man ran at him with a shout, sword brandished high. Jon blinked rapidly, trying in vain to clear his vision and tell himself that  _ no _ , this  _ can’t  _ be him, it can’t. Robb is back home, safe in Winterfell. And yet he couldn’t deny that the man resembled his brother, as far as he could see. He was the right height and built, his hair the right length and color. He knew now why this was his last fight; Roose didn’t believe he could kill his own brother. 

Roose underestimated his will to live. It wasn’t just himself he was fighting for, now. 

Jon hefted his sword and met the man head on, steel singing between them. But Jon knew in the state he was in, he wouldn’t survive this playing by the rules. He spit in the man’s face, making him draw back from the sudden shock, and while he was distracted, Jon drew back his arm to land a solid punch, his fist connecting with his cheek with a sickening  _ crack _ . Jon didn’t give him a chance to stand as he brought his sword down, missing his mark and instead embedding it in his shoulder. The man screamed, soul-wrenching and heart breaking, as he tried to pull the sword out of his flesh. Jon had tears brimming in his eyes, obscuring his vision even more, as he jerked the sword out with a wet sound and lunged forward. Until the sword was protruding through his back. 

He kicked away the man’s sword and was immediately on his knees, holding him as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come, Jon’s sword skewered through his lungs. Blood stained his lips. “I’m so sorry,” Jon was saying. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want--I-I love you--Robb--” 

The crowd watched in silence as he wept, listening as the pained gurgles from blood-filled lungs finally stopped. Then, he realized. He looked up at the man, and saw his eyes, open and lifeless and staring up at the cloud-darkened sky, were the emerald-jade color of a still lake. Not the stony blue of an ocean storm. A sob wrenched itself from his chest, this time one of relief. It was not Robb whom he had killed. 

He stood on shaky legs and wrenched his sword from the strangers chest, feeling it catch between the bones of his ribcage, and the crowd cheered as he hefted it above his head in triumph. 

He turned to where he knew Roose was sitting in his own separate section, and drew back his sword, intending to throw it straight through the man’s skull. The sword missed it’s mark, embedding itself in the wall just to the left of his ear. He could only imagine the expression on his face as Roose stood. 

Jon expected Roose to call the guards to execute him where he stood, but it was not that he said when he spoke. “You have won your final fight, Jon Snow. As I am a man of my word, I will let you choose anything you wish as a reward, and you may go free, back to your home or wherever else you so choose.” He sounded pleased, and Jon thought he could hear the grim smile in his voice that concealed so many lies and secrets. Jon was too tired to care to find out any of them, wanting to just return home. 

“I want the girl.” And he wanted his wolf. But he knew the great, proud beast was something he would never see again. “Deidre.” 

“Done.” He gestured to someone, and Jon assumed he was ordering the person to bring out the girl from wherever she was being kept. “My men shall lead you out. There will be a horse and supplies for your journey waiting for you. Best of luck to you, Jon,” he said, his voice a silken purr. Jon knew it couldn’t be that easy, but he didn’t resist. Didn’t call out that he had cheated, drugging Jon the night before so that he would be helpless in his fight. It didn’t matter any more; he was free. 

A guard, one he had never met before, came to lead Jon out of the arena, down the hall to another he had never been into before. He was on edge, expecting treachery. But true to Lord Bolton’s word, he was lead out of the Dreadfort, and there was indeed a horse waiting, Deirdre standing beside it. He smiled when he got close enough to see that it really was her. Despite the blood covering him, she smiled back, jumping up to hug him. 

“I told you I would keep you safe,” he said, before helping her up onto the horse, climbing on behind her. Without so much as a backwards glance, he kicked the horse into a gallop, wanting to get away from the Bolton’s as fast as possible. 

When he felt the first arrow pierce his shoulder, he almost didn’t realize it. But then the pain was rapidly spreading, making him feel as if his shoulder was on fire. The second and third arrows had him crying out, curling around Deirdre protectively. He had five arrows in his back by the time they reached the cover of trees, and Jon knew it had to be Ramsay; he was the only one that was a good enough archer to hit him from so far away. Jon would have been impressed, had he not been the one shot, and Ramsay not been the one shooting. 

He found himself slipping, falling from the horse, landing with his face in the dirt. Deirdre jumped down and knelt beside him, not knowing what to do or how to help. Jon just barely found the energy to pull himself to his knees. 

“Deirdre, listen to me,” he rasped, unwinding a leather cord that was wrapped around his wrist. On it was a few glass beads and a once pristine white ribbon; the only thing he had left from his life in Winterfell. He took her wrist and fastened the bracelet around it, trying it securely so that it wouldn’t be lost. “You need to ride for Winterfell. Find my brother, and show him this. Robb--he’ll help you.” 

“I’m not leaving you!” 

“You need to.” He cupped her cheek gently, doing his best to smile at her. “My family will take you in, you’ll be safe there.” He urged her towards the horse, trying to conceal how much pain he was in. 

“I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” She looked at him like she knew he was lying, but nevertheless she did as she was told, climbing onto the black mare and riding off, leaving Jon to fall back onto the ground. 

He tried his best to pull out the arrows, breathing hard and gritting his teeth against the pain. He got out all of them but the one in his shoulder; that one was too deep. He had to push it all the way through his flesh until it protruded out the other side, and snap the back in half. Only then was he able to pull out the head of the arrow, throwing it aside. 

It wasn’t long before he heard the Bolton’s men coming for him, led by their hounds. Jon smiled, laying in the grass and looking at the sky. The clouds were beginning to clear, revealing a misty blue, like the color of Robb’s eyes in the sunlight. He surrendered to unconsciousness, at peace with the fact that the last thing he would ever see was a clear sky. Finally, after all this time, he was given the peace of death. He could almost thank Ramsay Bolton for that mercy. Perhaps, he would, when he met the bastard in hell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, that's a wrap guys. Sorry for taking so long, since I changed the original idea so much, I had to completely rewrite the final chapter.


End file.
